Cobwebs
by Onyx
Summary: Sometimes the past is harder to face than fate. A Mirai vignette featuring Son Gohan


His eyes bore into me for a single moment – earnest, pointed daggers made of the bluest ice

His eyes bore into me for a single moment – earnest, pointed daggers made of the bluest ice. He is beautiful as all young, living things are beautiful, determination giving his face a definite shape, one that suits him. It falls somewhere between Saiyan honor and plain old human stubbornness. Then, I feel my hand impact the back of his head. 

Yes, I realize as his eyes cloud over, shock registering in those depthless blue irises before they roll back and are covered by falling lids…yes, he is too beautiful to die here. I catch him with my one remaining arm before he hits the ground, holding him close against myself for a precious moment. 

This is the younger brother that I'll never have. I'm sorry, Trunks…truly. I pray that you'll never know how sorry. I lay him down on the ground, running a hand reluctantly through the lavender tangle of his hair, remembering as I do so the feeling of a much larger hand, a hand with only four fingers, smoothing my own bangs away from my face so long ago. 

Was this how he felt, when he left me for the last time? Did it hurt him this much? Yes, I know it did as I stand here – this much, and maybe even more. I'm sorry now that I was angry with him. He did what he had to, just as I am doing what I have to. 

The small, crumpled form of my student looks so lost, so forsaken there on the ground – and still more so when it blurs in my vision. I swipe a hand across my face angrily, and I can see clearly again. "Goodbye, Trunks," I whisper.

Did _he_ tell me goodbye as he turned, for the last time, back to the burning city? I guess I have no way of knowing…just like I'll never know if his eyes burned like mine are, aching with unshed tears. 

I'll bet they did, though. 

Before I can think any more, I leap into the air. I feel his name drop from my lips as I enter the clouds, hoping against hope that the cyborgs will not see me until I am ready to strike. 

I remember it like yesterday – the last time I saw my mentor. The memories are attached to my thoughts like bothersome cobwebs, virtually impossible to shake off. I remember how afraid I was. At first, it had been pretty much routine: someone was attacking a few villages. No big deal. I mean, we had beaten Frieza, and they just didn't _come _any worse than him, right? And even if my dad _was _dead (even now, I can't think of his death without choking back a sob…) I was confident that, together, we would defeat this evil. 

We split up, searching for the threat. One by one, chis started to disappear. That's when I started to be afraid – my friends' chis were vanishing, yet I never sensed an attack. I could hear explosions, but no enemy life forces tickled my mental radar. 

As always, when I was afraid or confused, my mind latched onto a single impulse. It used to be a little joke of mine. Most people's adrenaline-induced impulses are either fight or flight. I had three: fight, flight, or find Piccolo. 

I found him, alright. I was on my way toward the center of the city, darting in between buildings so as not to leave a silhouette against the sky (something that _he_ had taught me) when a magnificent, wracking explosion struck not fifty yards to my right. Tongues of flame blossomed like a fiery rose, the wind sending me helplessly into the air along with more debris than I'd ever seen in my short life. Everything from air cars to flower stands soared into the air like confetti. I can't remember if I screamed – if I did, it was lost in the hungry roar of the flames. 

I landed (or rather crashed) against something hard, and the something caught me with strong, steely arms. By then, I knew well enough who it was – after all, how many times had he caught me before? He was always around when I needed him. I breathed a sigh of relief and said, "Thank…"

The rest of my words were forced back down my throat by the wind when Piccolo dove. He sped straight toward the ground, and I was beginning to wonder nervously if he planned to smash straight into it. He pulled up about four meters from the street, glanced around at the flames that were licking merrily at the bases of the sky scrapers, and then he darted away, zigzagging through the buildings like a fish through coral. 

I can recall every detail of that ride – the way that his arms tightened around me, the warm feeling of his chi, his life force, enfolding the two of us even though he kept it pressed down as far as it would go. I started to tell him what I had come to say – that the others were being picked off, that they needed help – but I looked up at his face first, and the words died on my lips. 

Red-tinged shadows lined his face, and I noticed several cuts across his forehead. His lips – the bottom one slightly swollen on one side – were tight in an angry line, his brows drawn so low that they almost (but not completely) hid the darkness in his eyes. He was sans cape and turban, a sure sign that he had not been holding back in whatever fight he had come from. I couldn't be sure, but I thought I saw snarl lines crossing the bridge of his nose – those always appeared when he was wrestling with some emotion, be it fury or something deeper. 

_He knows, _I realized, beginning to feel sick. If he knew, and he hadn't saved them…then he couldn't. Which meant… "Piccolo-san," I began, fear nearly choking me. 

"Shh." He cut me off, but pulled me closer. I noticed that he was moving faster than before – I'd never seen him go this fast. I moved my face away from where I've been pressing it into his gi, noticing as I did so the warm, sticky feeling that my hands had encountered. _He's bleeding…_

I heard another explosion…behind us. Which meant that we were moving **_away_** from the enemy. I felt as if I had just been dunked in cold water; my brain, numb with shock, floundered. Piccolo was running away. He **_never _**ran! 

"No!" I protested as loudly as I dared, struggling against his firm, unyielding grip. I might as well have been a mouse trying to bend the steel of a trap. "No, we can't leave them! We have to go back…Piccolo, they'll die!" 

"They're already dead," he hissed. His voice held no feeling, no sorrow, but I saw his eyes darken even more, becoming empty holes torn in his face. "There's nothing we can do for them." 

Unbelieving, I reached out with my mind. Ours were the only two fighting chis left in South City. At that moment, I felt my resolve melt like snow in March, and I fell back against him, muffling my sobs against his shoulder. He growled, but he didn't reprimand me, which – given the way that he felt about crying – was really amazing. 

It should have been my first warning. 

When next I looked up, we were outside the city and behind a little knoll on a mountainside… come to think of it, it may even have been the same place that I left Trunks. After all, these cities get razed and rebuilt almost on a weekly basis anymore, even though there are fewer and fewer people to do the building. Who's to say that this isn't the same city? I smile at the thought – how fitting, if that is so. 

I remember that Piccolo landed heavily, not with the easy grace that he usually had. He went down on one knee, obviously hurting, and he did not let go of me for a long moment. I could feel his powerful frame heaving each time he drew breath and wondered if he had forgotten that I was there, but I know the truth now – he was loathe to let go of me, just as I was loathe to release Trunks scant moments ago. He grieved for me, for the pain I would feel when I had to face the world without him.

Abruptly, he pushed me away and rose to his feet. "Go home," he growled, terse as always, and he turned back toward the city. Two long strides put him well out of grabbing distance. 

I bite my lip, remembering the way that the strong curve of his back had stood against the fiery light from the city. He looked like a Greek statue, (well, a green Grecian statue with elven ears and antennae, but you get the point,) every muscle defined in startling relief against the muted blacks of the hill and the firelight, which lit him from behind. I caught my breath, the first glimmer of knowing settling in my mind like a spark to tinder. You see, I was more accustomed to battle at the age of ten than Trunks is now…and I knew, in that instant, what Piccolo was going to do. I saw it in the set of his shoulders, in the shining darkness of his eyes. 

I had heard explosions always behind us…never getting any farther away. We were being followed. Piccolo was going to fight them…and he wanted to fight them alone. Which meant…

A horrible thought passed through my mind, a chill wind to fan the growing fears: deep inside, I had known all along that Piccolo would never run away. 

An animal cry tore itself from my throat, and I lunged forward, wrapping both my arms around one of Piccolo's legs, clutching at the fabric like a flesh-and-blood bear trap. He stopped in his tracks and growled, but when I looked up at him, I saw no anger in his expression. Just a terrible kind of sadness. 

That scared me worse than anything else. 

Then, I saw his face harden into the accustomed, stern mask of a sensei. "Gohan," he said, his voice deadly calm. "I told you to go." It was the same thing that he had told me the first time he had died, when Nappa's blast had destroyed him. He had told me to run away, he had made me promise him that I wouldn't die. I think that was when it hit me that these cyborgs were the most powerful things we had ever faced. That, if Piccolo went back out there, he would die. And I knew that he was thinking the same thing I was, and it wasn't going to stop him. Nothing was going to stop him. 

"Don't leave me, Piccolo," I whispered, burying my face in the soft, cool cloth. 

A snort. "Surely you can manage to get home on your own. Now I have matters of my own that need attending to, and I don't have time to baby-sit. You'll only be in my way. You've been inconvenience enough already; it's a wonder that you didn't draw them both down on us with your senseless human babble."

The words stung, but not because they were harsh. I knew that he was speaking in such a way to hurt me enough that I would abandon him. He wanted to make me angry enough to let him go, to let him die. "That's not what I'm talking about," I said, my voice catching, "and you know it." 

He growled. "Little fool." His voice had grown harder, more scathing. His alien features caught the distant, blood-tinged glow of fires, his fangs gleamed as if with a light of their own. I could almost see how he had, for so long, been called the demon king…but _he_ didn't scare me. He never really had. "If you stay, you'll only be weak, and you will hinder my fighting. Do you think I have time to save you every time you blunder an attack? Can I fight them and still look over my shoulder, making sure that you haven't gone into one of your little fits?" 

"You don't mean that," I whispered, clutching him still more tightly. I felt tears running down my cheeks. Normally, I wouldn't have dared his anger by disobeying him – oh, he'd never really hurt me, but I couldn't face his disappointment – however, the though losing him loomed in my mind, infinitely worse. 

I realize now, as I fly toward the city, that Trunks will never know how lucky he was, not knowing that this will be my last fight. Seeing that my sensei was preparing to die…worse, that he was preparing to die so that I could get away…was the single most terrible thing that I've ever gone through. I knew then as I know now that Piccolo could have gotten out of there if he'd really wanted to. He had grown up in the wild, he knew how to hide. He was faster, stronger than I was, and he had about a thousand times the experience. But he couldn't have made it and looked after me at the same time, and I would never have escaped on my own. 

I knew all of that as I stood behind a hill, clutching him like a child who is afraid of the dark clutches a flashlight, dreading the time when the batteries run out and he will be left alone in the darkness. I expected him to become angry, I waited for more furious words. Instead, I heard a soft breath that could very well have been a sigh. Piccolo hardly ever sighed. "Son Gohan, do you realize that you are the only person in the world who could get away with something like this?"

I looked up at him hopefully – much as Trunks had looked at me just moments ago, I suppose – and I saw that his eyes, which ordinarily reflected the world around them like mirrors, revealing none of his inner thoughts, were softened by a strange kind of gentleness. I had seen that warm light before, but only rarely; in fact, I could count the occasions on one hand. The first was when he had died. The second was when Dende had restored him on earth after the Frieza battle. The third was during the battle with Garlic Junior, when he had told me not to worry about him, that winning was all that mattered right then. 

And now, that look again. I bit my lip, determined not to budge. Maybe the cyborgs would find us, maybe not, but I would not let him sacrifice himself for me again. He smiled – still sadly – and placed his large hand on my hair. I was too surprised to move; after all, Piccolo wasn't exactly prone to showing his feelings. "You'll be fine, Gohan. I know you'll make do somehow."

Now, I think that he was trying to reassure himself as much as me. I know at this moment how he felt, as I hover over the tortured city, preparing to sell my life as dearly as possible. What if I fail to take out at least one of them? What will happen to Trunks? To Bulma? To the world? 

His hand had trembled, and I felt a different kind of fear gnaw at my stomach. What was he thinking? What was he going to do? Would he let me come with him? "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice unbearably soft. 

I sniffled in spite of myself. "For what?" I asked. 

His eyes suddenly became mirrors again, and I saw myself reflected in them, small and afraid. "For this," he answered. His hand became a fist and cuffed the base of my skull. Before I blacked out, I remember thinking that I felt him catch me…

I shake my head, trying to banish these memories. I can't afford to dwell on them. I haven't the time, and I need no distractions. This task will require all of my concentration, all of my power – power that _he _showed me I possessed. 

But, before I go, I can't help but remember waking up to the bleak, gray light of dawn. I lifted my head from the cold, cold ground, my bleary eyes distorting the sunrise into running blood. "Piccolo?" I whispered drowsily, thinking that I had stayed out too late training and had slept in the wilderness with my sensei. Of course, that was it – the fire must have gone out, and I had woken up. Any minute now, I would hear his gruff voice complaining of human frailty even as he restarted the fire and, if I feigned sleep well enough, he would drop his cape over me to keep off the chill…even now, I can smell the smoke…

I sat up suddenly, my heart between my teeth. It wasn't wood smoke that I smelled. I started to rise when I came to know that I was gripping something in my hand. Opening my nerveless fist, which was numb from being clenched so long, I found a single scrap of purple fabric. 

There was every probability that I had been clinging to my Namekian friend too tightly for him to remove me, even when I was unconscious. However, I prefer to think that he left it with me for another reason…so that I would have something of him with me when I came to. I stared at that shred of material for a long, long time. How could he? I remember thinking. And then…then I was angry, furious in fact. I was angry with him because he had willingly thrown his life away. I was angry at Gero's cyborgs – which I had never seen – for forcing him to do so. I was angry at myself for letting him trick me. I was angry with my dad for being dead, for being unable to help us. 

I was angry because from then on, when I woke up in the night with a horrible, half-remembered dream, there would be no one in the familiar clearing for me to run to with my problems. There would be no more morning sparring sessions, no more of mom's stern glares as I return home from a day with my best friend. I was angry because I knew that after I got done being angry the grief would come, and it would tear me apart.

Then, a thought occurred to me, one that I latched onto every bit as firmly as I had attached myself to Piccolo all those years ago and with as much desperation as I had felt earlier to keep him from going back. Maybe I wasn't too late. (I steadfastly ignored the fact that it had been late evening and early night when we fled the city, which meant that several hours had passed.)

Before I could think further (the thought didn't come to me until much later that the cyborgs could have been waiting for me in the scorched remains of South City) I was up and flying toward the skeletons of the once-magnificent buildings. 

I found him half-buried beneath a pile of semi-melted stone, his face calm, his eyes closed. All around, the street was torn, the lamp posts were dented. A single scrap of his gi fluttered in the barely existent breeze like a flag at half-mast. I'd never seen his skin look so green; it stood out beautifully against the asphalt, but then, so did the star pattern of dry, indigo blood beneath him. I stood rooted to the spot like some ineffectual shrub. I mouthed his name, but could make no sound. And then I ran to him, throwing myself against his still chest. He drew a shuddering breath, and I felt my heart leap in frail hope…but then his eyes opened, and that hope died. 

He had that same gentle, warm look in his eyes, although the film of impending death muted it like a layer of gauze. He smiled at me rakishly, as if sharing some private joke, and raised a shaking hand from the rubble to run it through my hair. "Piccolo-san," I whispered, heartsick. I felt as I had when my father died: helpless, alone. I couldn't be angry with him any longer. 

I saw the hole through his chest – obviously, it had pierced a lung. He couldn't speak. I tried unsuccessfully to swallow the lump in my throat. "Don't…" I tried to say, 'don't die,' but the last word just wouldn't come out. 

He shook his head, placing a finger on my lips. There was obvious meaning in the fading light of his eyes – he wanted me to go. I hugged him again, not caring anymore if he saw the tears that streamed freely from my eyes, not caring that his blood was leaving morbid streaks on my face to match the tear trails. "I won't go without you," I said fiercely. 

He sighed, even though it sounded more like a gasp, and relaxed back against the pavement. I wished feverishly that I could get him someplace warmer, safer – if, for no other reason, so that he wouldn't have to let go of life in such a cold, forbidding place. To this day, I remember how the frost glittered on the ground like the glaze on a doughnut, how it was dew against him because he was not yet cold enough for it to freeze on his emerald skin… The hand on my hair went slack and started to fall back to his side, but I caught it and held it. "Don't leave me," I pleaded for what must have been the hundredth time. I had the most awful feeling, as if my already-warm fingers were leeching out what little warmth remained in his chill hand. I began rubbing it absently, hoping to restore circulation or some other such thing that I'd read in one of my innumerable schoolbooks. His long, strong fingers gripped mine for a moment, nearly swallowing them, and I heard (or thought I heard) a voice in my mind, weak and thin from pain, but reassuring: "It might get harder for you to see me, kid, but I'm here for you." His eyes burned into my own with intensity that I could never begin to match as the last words of his strange message fluttered through my mind like so many butterflies, "And I always will be."

I don't know how long I stayed there, holding onto him as if I could keep him with me by willpower alone, as if death could not take him if I was anchoring him. Finally, inexorably, the broad chest beneath me stopped rising, the hand that required two of mine to hold went slack, the deep, dynamic eyes closed. Even my bloodless grip on his hand couldn't keep his soul and body together.

I hope that, when Trunks finds me, I will either be decently dead or (by some miracle) able to live. It broke my heart, seeing Piccolo in that much pain and being unable to do anything for him. I can see the cyborgs beneath me now, darting through the city like destructive fireflies in the grass…and I let my hair turn gold as it did on that day so long ago, when they took my sensei away from me. I must kill at least one. I must. For him, for Trunks, for all of them. 

It gives me courage, knowing that Piccolo must have been thinking much the same thing as he faced these creatures for the last time. I feel as if he is flying beside me right now – perhaps he waited in this same spot for the cyborgs. That's yet another thing that I'll never know, I suppose…but I like to think so. And now, as he would say, I can't fight with a cluttered mind. I spend another moment – I know, it seems as if I am hoarding them like a miser hoards his zenni, but this is so very important – trying to see if there are still any lingering cobwebs in the back corners of my memory that might distract me. 

I see only one thing in my mind's eye: Trunks, his hair golden, his eyes the same color they've always been. He can do what I could not – I have to believe that, because it will take a miracle to destroy these monsters. I'm all out of miracles, I can sense that…but maybe Vegeta's son has a few left up his sleeve. 

And so, with no further hesitation, I dive. 


End file.
